


Sense of Control

by yeahmorty



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Anal, BDSM, Badass Morty, Citadel of Ricks, Cop Rick, Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Politics, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rogue Morty, Slow Burn, Vigilante Morty sort of, eventual rick/morty smut, this morty is 17 so technically not underage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 03:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahmorty/pseuds/yeahmorty
Summary: In which Morty C-138 makes his living off the streets of the Citadel. Drug abuse is running rampant in the city, the casualties of Morties are at an all time high, and C-138 is left with little to believe in. When a particular encounter with a cop Rick makes him question what he thinks he knows about Ricks, Morty has no choice but to give the man a chance.





	Sense of Control

**Author's Note:**

> First Rick and Morty fic, literally cannot get over how cool the idea of the Citadel is. I have some cool stuff imagined up for this fic so bare with me. This isn't a song fic but the song that I listened to writing this chapter was: "Who are you, really?" by Mikky Ekko. Its good. Any and all feedback or criticism is also welcome!

_"Who, who are you really?_  
And where, where are you going?  
I've got nothing left to prove  
Cause I've got nothing left to lose  
See me bare my teeth for you  
Who, who are you?" 

-Mikky Ekko  
++ 

Morty C-138 ran with fire in his belly, feet thumping against the ground in an endless crescendo of fear and adrenaline. The wind was fierce, rippling his clothes and hitting his face. Morty felt his cheeks grow pink with the abuse, his teeth chattering against the odds. He laughed, clutching the bag close to his chest, breathing heavy, the worn material a familiar husk. Morty's back was lit up by the faint glow of reds and blues in the distance, caught at the scene of the crime. There were however stray cops darting from either side of him. Morty listened with intent, hearing the footfall of about three or four Rick Cops chasing after him.

He held the item, hidden in a brown sack, closer to his chest. It was digging imprints into his skin but Morty paid that no heed. He shifted to the side to avoid a pedestrian, a younger looking Morty with more bags under his eyes than hairs on his head. The kid just watched with mild disdain, one Rick slamming into him. They fell in a heap, the Morty hardly fazed.

The chase moved along, bypassing alleyways full of Morties and even some Ricks. Most of the Morties hid as the cops approached. However, some just watched with interest lit in their brown eyes, syringes in hand or buried deep in their arms, forgotten for a moment as they could hardly believe a Morty was outrunning a hoard of Rick Cops. 

“Y-You'll never catch me!” He shouted behind him, surprisingly coordinated for a Morty, dodging some debris on the ground. 

_The Citadel Council should really put more time into this part of the city with maintenance,_ Morty thought absently.

One cop behind him rolled his eyes, the Rick responding with a tasteless, “How f-fucking cliché. H-How long you been wai-URP-waiting to use _that_ one?”

The Morty simply laughed, the sound bright as he continued to dart down an alleyway and swing into a back entrance. Morty slammed it shut behind him and locked the door, fiddling along the dark walls for a switch. Light pooled in the center of the room, illuminating what appeared a warehouse full of storage items for a larger business. Hiding in the crevices were hidden weapons, food, and bounties Morty had collected over the months. A thick layer of dust coated every storage compartment and Morty nudged himself between several boxes, covering himself completely. He hid here often, during thunderstorms and during chases, when escaping brutal Morties or Rick Cops.

The hiding spot never failed him.

Not too far off, Morty heard the door kicked in and he sighed quietly as he realized this place would have to be left behind in search of a new refuge. Honestly, he hadn't expected the cops to pursue him this far on foot with all the injuries at the scene. Nevertheless, he held his breath tight in his chest. Morty's lungs screamed from the run, from the shallow breathing he allowed himself as flashlights crept into the corners and wedges of the storage boxes. 

Morty made himself impossibly small, curling into himself how his Rick had taught him to do in another life.

“I-URP-I don't see him over here!” One Rick shouted. His voice bounced off the walls.

“T-This place i-is fucking massive,” Another groaned, undoubtedly crouched and hunting for the Morty who was only a mere crawlspace away.

After some time, in which Morty had gotten his breathing and heart under control, the Rick Cops gave up. It was announced loudly by whoever was leading the chase. The defeat and annoyance mixed in the Rick's tone to create a molotov of irritability.

“S-Shit, fucking kid g-That Morty's a-always gonna be a fuckin' pr-problem.” The same Rick continued. His voice grew quieter as did the distant footfall of Ricks leaving the warehouse. 

Morty let out an even sigh some minutes later. He allowed a half hour to pass before emerging, just to be sure. He stood in a black shirt, black jeans, black shoes, eyes crinkled with joy at realizing he had fooled the Citadel again. Morty sat on the edge of one of the boxes, taking out a cheap phone and sending a quick message out. After that, he re-pocketed the device and took a moment to compose himself further.

Shakily, he unravelled the brown packaging from the item that had pressed indents into his stomach from clutching it so close in hiding. The stone glowed a hot pink, illuminating the now dark room. Morty took another second to just stare at it, licking his lips.

“Finally.” He whispered. 

The gem was jutting out from the brown sack in every which direction. It was haphazard, beautiful, sharp. Morty's eyes lingered for a moment before he got up and heading into the very back of the warehouse. Slipping between storage units and forgotten cargo, Morty entered a grand open space completely shielded and hidden from public eye. In this area was a makeshift living space.

There was a little cot, complete with scratchy blankets and a few stolen pillows. Next to that was a waste bucket. The center of the room hosted what was a hole infested green couch, worn and torn from use. A small, almost ancient looking tv balanced precariously on a rickety table. Morty gravitated to the television, grabbing the box underneath and working for some time.

Within the hour, he had attached the crystal successfully to the cable box. It glowed fainter now, but pulsed in time to a beat Morty was unaware of. Nevertheless, Morty was buzzing with barely contained excitement. He returned the box under the tv, re-hooked up the wires, and sat back with the cruddy remote in hand. The power button always stuck so he turned the tv on manually.

Within moments, the screen glowed to life and Morty was awash with the harsh light of _Chair People Chronicles_. The screen hosted a pair of chairs with dolled up eyes, their mouths in the seats, discussing a dish of people. The plate was steaming, the eyes and mouthes dusted with what Morty assumed was parsley. 

“And there you have it gentlechairs,” One of the chairs hummed, “A perfectly seasoned _Person a la carte_.” 

Morty flipped the channel and was met with graphic images of three headed females fighting on screen. The next click revealed a man with no arms selling things at a store called Arms. 

Morty's grin was splitting, his heart racing. In a matter of minutes he'd found _Ball Fondlers_ and his grin grew impossibly wider.

“Finally.” Morty kicked back in his chair, reached for a beer off the ground, and popped it open.

++

The Citadel is a wonder for those Morties who have Ricks and a home planet to return to. They stare in awe, being dragged by their Rick all across the base, being offered pamphlets and free samples by any hard working Morty or Rick they encounter. The underlying darkness that swarms the shadows of the Citadel is hidden from these particular fourteen year olds.

In the corners of the city, Morties look on with barely contained jealousy at their more innocent counterparts.

For some Morties this is the reality. They do not simply visit the depths of the Citadel, they are left there, are lost there, are stuck there. Big brown eyes dart across the skylines and wear loose clothes, hopping from corner to corner looking for a quick buck, a quick fix, running from the cops. The drug of choice was entitled R-497, a hybrid of alien heroin and meth, a deadly concoction that zoomed right to the heart and killed countless daily. R-497 was developed by a Rick for Ricks who wanted the intense, the extreme, knew their limits. It was never meant for a Morty and yet...It was a favorite amongst Morties.

It was highly controlled, and yet somehow, a Morty had released it to the public. That had been the initial strike, the first fall of the empire of the Council of Ricks who swore it was not on purpose, was not done to keep Morties weak, needy, sick. It was not to get Morties addicted to R-497, was not to kill them in an effort to contain. 

Many Morties believed this to be a lie, many more could almost prove it, and even more still disappeared when they so much as spoke upon the possibility with true evidence.

Ever since the unknown release to the public, OD rates had skyrocketed and Rick Cops were patrolling the crevices and niches of the Citadel like a fine tooth comb, weeding out the bad and ugly. 

This area, the hellhole of the Citadel was coded as the Horizon. Ricks swear a Morty came up with the name with how stupid, how 'meaningful' it sounded. But, it stuck and so the Horizon became a place of refuge and fear, a mix of fuck ups and the lost, of hopeful and hopeless blue and brown eyes. Many Morties avoided it, many Ricks visited, very few escaped after sinking into the Horizon.

_“S-She's a damn mistress,” one Rick explained, “the Horizon su-sucks-She sucks yo-OU-ou in and then sinks he-her fucking claws into you, Morty. Never ge-get lost there. Don't go t-there without me, okay, Mo-OURty?”_

If there was one thing a Morty needed: It was a Rick. These edges of the Citadel were proof of that, of Rickless Morties being left behind, forgotten, swallowed up in the evil of the city around them. They merge and morph into one of the shadows, frequenting the Creepy Morty and other sleazy destinations, selling themselves and their stutters, all searching for the same rush only a Rick can provide with stale breath, fired insults, and random adventures.

R-497 was a close feeling.

A Morty was an adrenaline junkie, he just didn't know it. A Rick was the fix, always able to supply such risk, always making sure Morty needed that––Needed him.

Rebellion was rare for a Morty. Knowing their purpose was to be beside a Rick, many bent to the will of Ricks with ease, looking to please and receive praise in return. There were some truly rogue Morties, those who never visited the Citadel, who abandoned the notion of a Rick and led normal lives. They were the untouched, the foolish, the losers who, in most circumstances, killed themselves long before they were forty.

Or so the schools taught.

Morty C-138 was pretty sure that was all true. After all, a Rick could lie to manipulate, but to take the story to such an extreme for Morty obedience seemed unlikely. He remembered all the times he had been close to taking himself, to ending it on a whim, the familiar host of emotions swelling inside him as the world seemed impossibly large and small all at once––

++ 

“Welcome in,” A particularly buff Morty grinned down at C-138. The teen smiled back, although the look was a bit washed out. Inside the establishment he could hear the whooping of Ricks in mass, the stutters of more than a few Morties, and the tell tale clink of glass meeting glass. The place reeked of liquor and disappointment, the dim lights illuminating the sidewalk outside ghoulishly.

Morty C-138 took a deep breath before squaring his shoulders as best he could. He needed to appear confident if he were going to execute this correctly. The key was confidence, always was confidence, something a Morty wasn't born with but could learn to imitate. He'd seen some Morties do it well and some do it subpar, but it always seemed to work for them.

“Y-Yeah, feels so w-welcoming,” C-138 replied with an eyeroll, although the smile still touched his lips. He walked in, eying the crowd, expecting nothing and seeing everything. With all his time spent in the Horizon, Morty C-138 had yet to visit the Creepy Morty. 

Tonight appeared a night of firsts.

C-138 kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with most of the Ricks and all of the Morties. He sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Panic was welling up inside of him, the crowd and noise almost too much. He sighed, shaking the jitters away, and took his drink. Morty swallowed a generous gulp and visibly relaxed some.

 _Now what?_ He swung around in his barstool, brown eyes flitting over Morties in cowboy outfits, in space suits, dressed as Hatsune Miku, and even one in all leopard print. An anthropomorphic Morty, part bird and part Morty, hovered around a group of Ricks who sloshed down shot after shot.

“Oh geez...” Morty sighed under his breath.

Tonight was going to be a long one.


End file.
